


In the night

by wiltedartist



Series: Dehlian Hawke [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 23:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiltedartist/pseuds/wiltedartist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the night she haunts him. He can't get Dehlian Hawke out of his head. Fenris Introspective FenxHawke</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the night

**Author's Note:**

> Edited from the ff.net and tumblr version for details. Fenris is the best ever, and my favorite Dragon Age character sobs. Dedicated to Nancy.

 

 

He dreams of her one night.

 

It is probably because she leads so often. Her hips sway as he follows, and more often than not she will turn, place a finger on her lips, and disappear until the moment she can strike properly. She dances on the battlefield, delicate and precise, and he watches in great fascination. A rogue in the truest sense, she never ceases until the battle is done. One strike to kill a man, the next to kill another.

 

It's not so bad when she's moving, it's when she's not. Because then- in his mind- he unwittingly fantasizes about her moving again. . .in a different way.

 

But the night he dreams of her he feels an ache he has never known. Something deeper in him than lust is being pulled at, clawed to the surface along with his every desire. He dreams she is naked and perched on her hands, her breasts supple – perhaps even more than a handful for a human, not to mention an elf – she is looking at him with that same insufferable smile. And her hair- it's not in a braid- it is caressing her whole body. He feels an unquenchable hunger as his eyes follow her legs, which unfold as if taunting him. She laughs, confidence and beauty radiating off of her.

 

His dream self shuts her mouth with his. Grunts stifled by moist lips, he shoves himself into her only to be enveloped by both pleasure and intimacy. The intimacy is what arouses him the most. He has never been close to anyone before. He has never wanted to be. But Dehlian Hawke- if he could, he would have her with him always.

 

That thought, even though unconscious, disturbs him into waking. He cannot be attached, he cannot want. Wanting someone like Isabela was one thing, lust and feelings were seperated. But to want Dehlian Hawke- it was like truly wanting someone heart and soul. He had yet to hear one sordid tale of an affair Dehlian Hawke had ever had, and while he doubted she would be 'chaste' in any sense, he doubted even moreso she was the type of woman to wait around for nothing.

 

He watches her closely from then on, whenever they fight. She vanishes into thin air after one deadly strike, and whenever he catches her again she is behind a foe the very moment he turns to fight them, their last breath already taken.. A foe cuts off the end of her braid, or rather, a Tal-Vashok spear scrapes the flesh of her hip and catches her braid in the process. Her hair and blood pour out, but after a moment the blood stops. Her hair does not. She cuts the end of her braid clean with her dagger and moves to strike another foe, and her hair untangles in front of him.

 

Strand by strand, beautiful silk locks stream. He didn't notice she had so much thick and lively hair. This catches his eye more than a braid, and more than those damn swaying hips. When the fight is done she restrains her hair into a makeshift pony tail and trudges back to town. Her braid is half a foot shorter from then on- no doubt years of proper care gone to waste thanks to one errant spear. She never complains. She is a precise woman who uses every inch of her appearance to announce her intent. Even with her hair unkempt and distinctly messy, he sees she is unphased. She carries herself just as elegantly.

 

Her hair is akin to his greatest desire. On the battlefield Dehlian Hawke shows an armor that characterizes her entire existence. The same armor of deep rouge and dark greens that highlight the charcoal of her eyes. Her precision, her appearance, her attitude- they are all an armor that anyone could see. But what makes her skin, and flesh, and bone? Fenris is disturbed. He wants to know the answer. He wants the closeness of her hair tracing his flesh. He wants the intimacy of her truths, as well as her lies. And that terrifies him.

 

He dreams of her lying with him. Not sex persay, but bare skin pressed against skin. Truths fleshed out in the connection of two people. She smiles with her daintily applied makeups and grins at him. He kisses and caresses her until her makeup is almost gone, and she is still as beautiful. He sees the woman underneath the control, and he embraces her. Even more so, she embraces him. She presses her body against him and they say nothing.

 

In the silence he is at peace. She eventually begins to speak, just a little, and he knows it's because she wants him to hear her voice and feel he is not alone.

 

His heart breaks with dreams like that. Again and again for years he wonders if Dehlian Hawke is worthy of trusting. Sometimes she is sympathetic to mages, and sometimes she sends them straight to the Gallows. Sometimes she is all sarcasm, and sometimes she grits her teeth and smacks down any opposition or resistance. In his presence, she kills all slavers. But is it a constant, or just with him?

 

He supposes that point is slightly moot, he is often called upon by her. The other companions accompanying her vary, but he seems to be constant. He considers asking her, but decides it just means he is useful. He visits her in her home and sees her hair streaming down and her bangs not removed to one side in anticipation for battle. She apologizes for her casual appearance, and he reminds her it is in fact her home.

 

She chuckles and ties her hair up anyway. He doesn't realize it, but from then on her hair bothers him even more than before- considerably so. He does not realize he wishes her to feel casual enough around him that she will allow untamed hair and unparted bangs. The memory of her hair chopped off and splayed out by the Tal Vashok spear sears into his mind once again. He is uncomfortable and pushes the thought away.

 

He tries not to want her. Trust is impossible for him.

 

Then the Hunters come. He is surprised when she declares he is a free man. He is overcome by anger, and that's what leads him to crush Hadriana's heart. And he's happy to do it, and she does not stop him either. But she does try to comfort him. He hates her comfort. He hates getting used to her kindness. He hates the sympathy she feels. He hates that he wants her embrace, her body- the promise of her continued presence in his life.

 

He spends hours with himself, sulking. Then he goes to her home late in the evening to find her just as she was one evening. Long hair, messy bangs, a wave in her hair that hangs over her shoulders. He has thought out his apology, but he still stumbles. She asks him a question he cannot answer, because all that is on his mind is her.

 

But he cannot bring himself to go home.

 

He goes to The Hanged Man, and they all know something is on his mind. Varric was there, so he understands his dilemma. He does not know the problem is truly Hawke. He wants her. He has always wanted her. Isabela winks at him during their conversation and moves to touch his leg. Maybe in another life, or another time, but not when -

 

Not when he loves Hawke.

 

He leaves without saying a word. It is so late that he feels anxious. He wants to see her, to breathe her in and take her. To make her **his**. He recalls painfully that she did not push her hair aside, or brush off his visit to her home. She had remained with long wavy locks and tender sympathy.

 

He cannot do this any longer.

 

He goes back to her home, the lock moot to him as he has long since learned the tricks of this very same lock on another home. He is no rogue- but for this he will be. She should be asleep, but she isn't. She is sitting at her desk writing letters deep into the morning. She turns to look at him, and he tells her the truth,

 

“I have been thinking of you. In fact, I have been able to think of little else,”

 

She does not tell him to go. Instead she parts her lips just enough to casually chide, “Did I say anything?” That sends him over the edge. The red of her moist lips, the tresses of hair cascading down her back, the fact that the only thing separating her from him is not the armor she usually adorns, but a simple house robe.

 

And he does not want to want this. But he does. He wraps his arms around her and presses his lips against hers. She tastes like nothing he has ever tasted, he only knows he wants more. He lets go. She shoves him against the wall, and he runs his hands along her hips. It takes one motion of his hands, one small motion, to render her houserobe a mere garment on the floor. She begins to lead him up the stairs of her home, but he knows where her room is. He picks her up. He is impatient, unsatisfied, and hungry.

 

He wants to knows every part of her. An incomprehensible feeling is inside of him. What is it? He has never felt it before, so he cannot know. But he suspects it is happiness.

 

He has never known completion, but for a moment he finds it inside of her. Her sharp gasps fill his ears as he feels her hands claw at his back. Then the pain comes.

 

He tries to suppress it behind the distinct pleasure of her flesh. The tresses against his skin, the soft hips moving with him, her breasts against his chest. He can't stop- he doesn't want it to end. But he wants the pain and the memories to stop. He grows rougher with her, controlling her hips with his hands. His breath is harsh and he wants this pain to give. It's too much for him-

 

Why isn't he even allowed this one thing?

 

Why can't he just have her this one moment? He grits his teeth and he can tell she can't keep up, but she isn't complaining. There are no borders in his fight to keep ahold of this moment. He just wants to be with her. It's what he's wanted for years, but he can't do this. But he's yearning for it deep inside of him. He doesn't want it to end. Her touch is the best thing he's ever felt. His dreams strike him soundly as inadequate. **But he can't do this.**

 

He curses this woman. Her beauty, her striking wit, her power, her curves, everything- in his head Tevinter rings out and under his breath he shudders and whispers his curses. She shudders herself, one hand digging into his shoulder and the other won't stop moving. She wants more of him? He only assumes that because he wants more of her.

 

When he fills her with himself like this. . . he almost feels like he has found the mysterious idea of freedom. Wholeness, completion, fulfillment- he finds it all there. And yet he shoves it away as memories flash in his head. He pulls her hips to a grinding halt as he comes within her. For a moment pain and agony are undone and only sensations fill him. He looks down at her to see a sweaty beautiful woman looking back at him. She breathes harshly, as does he. They're still joined together, though only for a few more moments. Her hair is everywhere. How was she even comfortable? Her lips, no longer traced with rouge, parted with the same sensuous urge as before.

 

Her eyes are filled with something so heart wrenching he cannot look away. She touches his face. His body wants to reject her touch, the pain and the memories so distinctly clawing at him once again, but he can't. He wants to scream. He touches her face.

 

He wants to be with her. The thought of not being with her strikes him deep inside of his heart. He is torn between shamelessly leaving now or pulling her into an embrace. Despite his pain and anguish he tentatively wraps his arms around her and drapes her on top of him. Despite her being the same height as he is, she is light. It took almost no strength to pick her up and throw her down onto her own bed.

Guilt pangs in his heart.

 

Guilt because it ended up going this far. Guilt because he does not want to let go.

 

She has begun to softly caress his markings. It echoes against the pain and he feels an odd relief. It is a crime, he thinks, to want someone as badly as he wants her. But that's just the problem. He **is** a criminal. Not a man deserving of love and family or a woman so beautiful her eyes could catch any man or woman by the heart strings. It feels so right to listen to her soft breathing and feel her tender skin against him, but it **isn't** right.

 

He can't bring himself to even think the word he had in his mind earlier. He knows that as soon as he thinks it, it will be confirmed. There will be nothing between this moment and that painful truth- the way he feels about her. Instead he allows the fears and sorrows to completely take hold of him, his heart beating fast. But Hawke is falling to sleep in his arms.

 

“You're warm . . .”she murmurs as his arms remain wrapped around her.

 

“And you as well. . .” he responds after a moment. He loves the sound of her voice. Loves the feel of her hair. Loves the soft skin against his body. . . loves. . .

 

“I have always wanted this. . .” she quietly admits as she fades into sleep. For a moment he sees a woman who respects and desires him. He feels a morbid pain as he watches her fade into the realm of sleep. He remembers the looks he received when he overstayed his welcome in an inn or even an alley. The runaway slave. He feels as somber as he did then. There is a deafening and empty feeling inside of him. He is defeated. Here in the arms of a beautiful woman who would protect him always, love him always, he feels all the pain he has tucked away for three years.

 

He cannot sleep. He deeply wishes he could. To merely wake up tomorrow and see her face and wish away the nightmares and the pain. He acknowledges there he is just not meant to be happy. The pleasure and the happiness are all alike – they're not meant for him. His only freedoms are in running and his only happiness in being successful in that. He knows his argument his flawed, he knows he was happy only moments before. He knows as long as he touches her he has a sense of happiness he has never truly felt before. But the hollow life as a tool, a possession, is all he has ever truly known.

 

He curses that he is so eloquently determined, body and soul, to remain a slave no matter how hard he fights it.

 

When he crawls out of bed and stands there for so long, so long he can't recall, she eventually awakens. Rejecting her, losing her to his own fears, tears him in two without hesitation. But he is already a broken man- how can you tear in two something that is already shattered? When he tells her it was fine, he sees her feelings of inadequacy for the first time. How had he come to hold the power that would break the confidence of a woman like Hawke? And how is it he cannot express to her how he has never felt something so fulfilling or perfect? How can tell her that their raw unbound passion would stir him for the rest of his life, and then walk away?

 

He had only wanted to be happy. And oh how fleeting and destructive that happiness had been. As he walked away he yearned for it more than ever. He wished for **her** more than anything.

 

She does not push him away after that. Every mission, every fight, he remains at her side. Everytime he sees her he recalls the way her mouth opens when she approves of his touch. The guilt is the only thing crushing his desire. The guilt and the broken pieces of himself wishing only to know her feelings once again. He finds comfort in her presence in battle, her strength and beauty granting him a reprieve of loneliness. But as soon as his eyes catch the uncanny sway of her hips, as soon as he notices her braid once again, guilt is his only restraint.

 

Some nights guilt is not enough. He recalls soundly being inside of her, a feeling that is not so deeply ingrained but instead only haunts him when he is truly desperate for her. She pressed herself down on him only to move too slowly. Her hands on the bed underneath him. Her face above his. He had needed more, and soon he was the one above **her**. She enjoyed that.

 

The thoughts send him over the edge until he remembers all of it, until he is stroking himself in the dark and gasping at the memories. Her tongue in his mouth. His tongue in hers. Her gasp when he bites at the tender flesh of her breast.

 

He doesn't even deserve the memory. He broke her heart, he repeats to himself, but it's not enough. It's never enough to stop the ache.

 

When it is done and his hand is covered in his own fluids he stares at the ceiling blankly.

 

He realizes he has torn away his greatest desire without even understanding it. He has been a slave, loved by no one, abandoned, betrayed, sold out, nearly murdered so many times. But she wanted him, and he-

 

He had been the one to send her away.

 

When her mother died he is by her side- and it is painstaking. They sit in silence and it soothes her, and he is happy she feels better. But he wishes to put his hand on hers and allow for a comfort their strained relationship cannot afford. She would have done so for him. She did once, when Hadriana came. Silence is comforting to both of them, but the absence of the comfort he would have given her is clear.

 

Soon she is the Champion of Kirkwall. People want to court her – but he has spent three years just wanting Dehlian Hawke after leaving her. She remains alone- something he understands and does not. He wonders if there is a feeling for him deep under that. When he finds his sister he requests she come with him. It has been so hard to keep her at arm's length- and he is nearing the end of the rope. How long before he gets too close, desires too much?

 

It isn't long. It's when he meets his damned sister, in fact, and is betrayed. Danarius put her up to it, and he- he is more shocked that he is well, shocked. Surprisingly Dehlian is the most angry. Danarius taunts her, demeans him, and then-

 

“Attacking a close companion of the Champion of Kirkwall? My, you don't know just how gruesomely I murder those who harm my treasured individuals, do you?”

 

Fenris' heart races.

 

And then he is dead. Fenris should be free. But he isn't. He is more alone than ever.

 

And then somehow, she looks at him with the same look he saw years ago. The same look when they were **one** and happiness was not such a foreign concept.

 

“I'm here, Fenris,” she reminds him plaintively. He feels something peculiar in his heart. Something warm and strange. And then he wonders- wonders if somehow she could forgive him.

 

In the hours before she sees him he yearns for her desperately. The greatest torment in years of regret has been the knowledge that he had squandered what he truly wanted. And now, now he was filled with a hope he did not know existed. Dehlian Hawke had clawed something to the surface years ago – and he was only beginning to understand what that thing was. Was it the man hidden inside of him, inside the shell of a slave? Was it the ability to trust, or even the ability to love? He does not know. All he knows is that it was important. That **she** is important.

 

He makes one resolve before she comes to him.

 

If she will just forgive him, he would give her everything he is. Not as a slave, but as a man- and never would he abandon her or let her go. Never again.

 

So when he kisses her before the final fight, he is not afraid to hold her. He is not afraid to crush her lips with the untold desire he has been holding back. And he is not afraid to say the truth-

 

“Nothing will keep me from you,”

 

And nothing does.


End file.
